SymphonianBookworm

Start Remembering
    The tiny room seemed, at least to my eyes, like an endless, directionless cavern. The simple brown door leading into it only reached about four feet, while the space itself couldn’t have been more than ten by ten. To most it was merely closet space—and a relatively useless one at that, because of the low, slanted ceilings. But it never really occurred to me to think about it in this way. It was a room of my younger days, a dark foyer for me and me alone, hidden from the rest of the house’s prying eyes. And it was dark—there had never been a light installed. The only way I could see was if I left the door open, but it had the bad habit of closing of its own accord, no matter what I put in front of it. Then, the whole room would plunge into a permeating darkness, where I was afraid to take a step because I was suddenly standing on the edge of a cliff, not knowing where any path would lead. The only bearings would be the cold wooden floor—harsh and unfeeling like stones blanketing the ground—and the musty smell of forgotten memories and unused toys strewn all over the floor, relics of times past. 
    The passage of time was strange in this place, for when the lights were out and I stood still, I could feel the past versions of myself traveling over the place. When I was old enough to walk, I stumbled here. Yes, that was the wall I accidentally bumped into when I was shakily trying to stay upright. My first train set, in the corner of the room, tracks worn into the floor by the repetitive back-and-forth. Broken crayons paired with coloring books of princesses I was once obsessed with, unfinished drawings unrecognizable. The crack in the wall I would peer into, wondering what creatures hid inside. The place on the ceiling where I always seemed to bang my head as I grew taller, no matter what precautions I put in place. 
That was the only time the room truly felt small. I was being suffocated by myself, by the buried nostalgia, by the things I tried to forget. The tears when no one would listen, the songs I had hummed to myself, more of a companion than the people who looked over my head but never really at me. If I listened long enough, I could just make out the last note still reverberating around the walls. Or it was my imagination, but what did it matter? The make-believe games where I had magic powers or where I was a queen.
    Reality was different in that small, small room. The cocoon of my thoughts, my inner growth, layers of myself folding upon each other and coalescing like dewdrops dripping off a leaf. It was a room where I could shed my disguises, for who could see me in the neverending darkness? No one. Perhaps that was what was so special about the room—it felt as though I was the only one in the world, alone in the slippery, creeping silence. I could dance like a ballerina, movements graceful in my mind's eye and clumsy in truth. But no one could see, so I was the delicate flower, the belle of the ball, the steadfast ocean, the drifting clouds, the whispering winds slipping in and out of consciousness. I could be all of those things, for I could be me. I could be exactly as I saw myself, exactly as I hoped to be, and in the darkness of the room that was what I would become. I was the girl stumbling with her first steps, I was the train conductor, I was the artist and the princess. It was the only place I could be  myself and what I had been all at the same time. A child, wondering what she could wish up in the soft, warm blanket that covered her sight.
    What do we become when no one is watching? I change the mask I wear depending on the people I meet. Some I try to impress, some I try to be happy around. I’m a malleable clay figure, bent and misshapen, contorted in trying to make myself into new shapes every day. But in that room, I could be a canvas, scraped clean of the heavy acrylics and subtle watercolor. In that room, I could be a crumpled bit of paper, scratched from too many erasures, pencil marks still lingering within the indents. In that room, I could be the sagging poster on a wall, weather and water washing away all semblance of ink and color. In that room, I could be the frayed rubber band, stretched to the point of breaking but holding on ever so slightly as it expanded and shifted but never gained. I could be the beaded necklace, broken on the floor, little gems scattered like stars, trampled upon by the feet of those who passed by. I could be the handkerchief, used over and over, washed and renewed, dirtied and disfigured, but sparkling clean. I could be the confining dress, squeezed into in hopes of one last use. I could be the library book, opened and closed by thousands of people, different to all and yet the same. And it was then that I could be nothing and everything. I could be blank, I could be crammed with detail and design. Instead of making myself for others, I simply made myself.
    The room was small, but it was also large.
    It was dark, but I could see.
    It was confined and timeless, every second meaning something different than what it did in the outside world.
    It was suffocating and exhilarating all at once. Choking on each sharp intake of breath.
    It was nostalgic and original, memories stinging my eyes as I created new ones.
    The room, the room, the room!
    How beautiful it was.

    Sometimes I wish that I could go back to that room, one day.
    Just for a moment.
    Shut the door behind me and be immersed in that darkness.
    Finally stop pretending.
    And start being.
    Start remembering.
    Start remembering the days before we all put on makeup and fake smiles and little lies.
    Start remembering the days of that cavern, when I could still stand up straight and my eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the night.
    Start remembering the days where my thoughts would flit from idea to idea, a delighted butterfly just barely grazing each new flower with the tips of her wings, instead of the equations forcing them into place.
    Start remembering the days when I would hum the first notes that came to my head, thinking they sounded beautiful. Before everything started to sound like the rhythm of the motions I went through every day.
    Start remembering the days that would bring something new, because I could be something new. Whatever I wanted to be. Before I started to harden into my tinted glass shell.

    I wish I could remember those days.

Sorry this is kind of late...

Also now I have COVID…

Also, don’t ask what the little lights are. I don’t know. But maybe my subconscious ness does.

Ah, melodrama is such fun.

Also I used too many "but"s. And "I wish"es. 

You know you're a Sanderfan when you read 27 books over the summer, and think, Why did I read so little...